


Buzz + Snip + Boom

by CommanderBunnBunn



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Gen, James MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016) Being an Asshole, Non-Consensual Haircuts, Traumatic Haircut, creepy crawlies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:33:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24364366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderBunnBunn/pseuds/CommanderBunnBunn
Summary: Three incidents involving Mac's gorgeous blond locks.
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 70





	1. Buzz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback to 9 year old Mac

Present Day

The crash and subsequent boom from the crawlspace under the house shook the couch as Bozer watched _Cutthroat Kitchen._ He muted the television and waited for the telltale "I'm ok!" that Mac always hollered from his chosen lab space after an alarming sound. When his roommate didn't call out within a few seconds, Bozer hopped from his spot on the couch to investigate.

\--------------------

January 2000

Mac walked into the house, head hanging down, a letter from the school in hand and the day's mail delivery in the other. He wasn’t sure of the contents of the letter, but knew it wasn’t good. Most correspondence from the school administrators was in simple newsletter format; the sealed envelope meant serious business. He couldn’t remember breaking or blowing up anything recently, at least not anything that was witnessed. 

He scratched at the top of his head with the corner of the envelope, the dryness of the winter months always did a number on his scalp. He’d have to cut back to washing his hair every other day instead of every day to try to get that balance back. He left the dreaded letter on the kitchen counter under the stack of mail for his father to read when he got home. He ran his fingers through his long hair, fluffing it out of his eyes before placing his backpack on the dining room table.

For a moment Mac considered steaming the envelope open, but James could always tell when Mac did that. It didn’t matter anyway, Mac was always in some kind of trouble at school. His dad had run out of ways to punish him- as if being quizzed on information out of that old set of encyclopedias was hard, Mac had read them cover to cover the previous summer as a punishment for breaking his dad’s power drill by removing the motor to build a motorized cart for Bozer’s corgi, Bridget, when she started having back problems. 

After shucking his hoodie and hanging it on the back of the chair in the dining room, Mac pulled out his homework. It wasn’t homework, it was busy work. He already knew way more than the textbook even contained, but he still had to turn in the asinine assignments. Plus it was helpful to appear studious, an apt pupil, when his father arrived home to read the ominous letter. On second thought, maybe he had time to play video games, just one level, then he could stop. The TV wouldn’t even be warm after one level. James would never know.

Time got away from Mac, of course, and his dad walked in. Mac jumped when he heard the door slam. His dad was over an hour late, how did Mac lose track of time that badly. The kid scrambled to shut off the game and tv before his dad noticed, but he was too late. James looked angrier than Mac had seen him in a while. 

“Hey Dad,” Mac tried to play it cool as he tucked the game controller back on top of the TV console and walked back to his abandoned homework. 

“Angus,” he growled, “what have I told you about playing video games on school nights.” It wasn’t even a question, he wasn’t waiting for an answer.

“But I…”

“Your language arts teacher called me at work today about your project. She said that you haven’t turned in any of the progress checkpoint assignments for that project.” His voice got louder, “and it’s due TOMORROW.” 

Mac opened his mouth to object or explain, he wasn’t sure, he just needed to stop his dad’s tirade before it got worse. It got worse.

“Have you even started?” 

“Well, no…" Mac toed his sock at nothing on the ground, "I don't have the materials…"

"Well we can't go get them now!" James interjected with rage. "My car is dead, the alternator went out, it's about a mile down the road." He gritted his teeth, "I called AAA and waited half an hour for their tow truck. Then they called me and said it would be another hour and a half. So I walked home!"

He stared Mac down and then flicked his glare over to Mac's homework spot at the table. 

"Yes, sir." Mac didn't even know what he was responding to, but he knew what he was supposed to be doing and scrambled to the table. He sat down and leaned over his textbook and paper, his hair flopped back into his eyes. 

"You need to write a letter to that teacher, apologizing for not turning in your project on time." James ordered as he smacked a legal pad down on the table.

"But I can get it done tonight," Mac started.

"Write. The letter, Angus" James gnashed his teeth.

"Yes, sir." Defeated, Mac mumbled something unintelligible into his book and pulled his fingers through his hair from the front to get it out of his eyes again, giving himself a little massage at his crown.

"Do you have something else to say?" James snapped, as he grabbed the top piece of mail and opened it. 

"No, sir." worked a lot better for him than telling his dad that making a shoebox diorama from the book _The Outsiders_ was a stupid way to prove that you'd read it. 

Mac made quick work of his father's assignment and finished before his dad made his way through the mail pile and to the letter from the school. He debated retreating to his room, but he also wanted to gauge his father's reaction to whatever was in the letter out of morbid curiosity. 

He crept quietly out of the kitchen toward his bedroom to hide. Mac slipped out of his school clothes and into some sweatpants, if the car were to be towed back to the house, Mac would like to try his hand at replacing that alternator, or at least assisting. His father was also very mechanically inclined and wouldn't trust his car in the hands of most people. It wasn't that he was attached to the car, he just didn't feel the need to pay someone to do it when he was capable of doing it himself, it was just a machine after all.

"Angus!" Mac heard the booming angry voice from down the hall. He was summoned.

Mac scurried to the kitchen and stopped, wide eyed in anticipation of the wrath he would receive due to the letter. 

"Has your head been itching?" James asked, monotone.

"What?" Mac's eyebrows scrunched together, unsure what he was getting at.

"You heard me. Has your head been itching?" His voice became more stern.

"I-I-it always does in the winter." Mac answered sheepishly as he fought the urge to scratch once the idea was put in his head.

"Come here." His father ordered. 

Mac stepped forward until he was a foot away from his father. James closed the gap between them and parted his son's hair from the top, inspecting it. 

"The school has a confirmed case of headlice in your homeroom. Now we have to check you and treat it before you can go back to school."

Mac looked up, disrupting his father's search, "is that what that letter was about?"

He forcefully tipped Mac's chin back down and continued to dig through the shaggy blonde hair.

"Of course." The elder Macgyver muttered. 

Mac swallowed in fear as he went to brush his locks back into place with his hand, "What is it?" 

"Don't touch!" James snipped. "You have headlice, Angus. Like some kind of snot-nosed preschooler."

"But you can get rid of them easily, right? It's just some kind of medicine and a comb. I can do it myself." Mac said apologetically. 

"No. You can't. You can't see what you're doing. I have to do it. Go lay out a garbage bag on the back porch and tape it down, then put one of the counter stools out there. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Yes, sir.” Mac sounded defeated. He hated when his father had to do things for him as much as his father hated being put out to do things for his son. Mac grumbled to himself that his dad didn’t need to give such explicit instructions, he could have said a tarp and a stool, the materials and execution were implied. Mac made tarps all the time to keep his messes and experiments from damaging the floors, he even kept his own 1.5 micron thickness garbage bags in the garage specifically for that purpose.

His eyes rolled more with each thought as he duct taped a makeshift tarp down to the patio concrete. The Macgyvers were serious about their duct tape, a most useful multi-purpose tool. He couldn’t think of anything he’d rather not do more than to spend an hour letting his father pick over him with a fine toothed comb. He dropped the stool in the center of the space and sat on it to wait.

“You know, Angus, going to middle school with those teenagers has definitely had a negative effect on your attitude. Sitting out here sulking like a moody teenager,” he closed the back door with more force than necessary, “maybe you’d do better with the 5th graders in terms of emotional maturity.”

“Dad, I don’t need to be in elementary school. There aren’t any bad influences. I’m not doing drugs or shoplifting. I know to stay away from the ‘bad crowd’” Mac used finger quotes as his father draped a towel across his shoulders and around his neck, clipping it together with a clamp. “And I can handle the workload, I’d be completely bored if I hadn’t skipped ahead.”

"You certainly have a high opinion of yourself. It looks to me like you didn’t handle the workload at all and won’t have anything to give your teacher in terms of a project tomorrow."

Mac stayed silent and let his dad finish getting ready. When Mac heard a buzzing start over his shoulder he jerked his head around, “Wait, what? Why? I thought...”

“I’m shaving your head, Angus. There’s no way we can get this taken care of promptly without shaving it first.” James added matter-of-factly.

“No,” Mac ducked and leaned forward to avoid the encroaching clippers. 

“Sit still, Angus.” his father commanded.

“No, please. Don’t.” He hopped off the stool and hopped two steps away with his hands out in front of him. 

“Son. Sit down. Now!”

There was fear in Mac’s voice. “No. I don’t want to. I can’t.”

“It’s just hair.” James yelled. “You have an infestation. I have to do this. Then we have to wash all of the blankets and bedding in the house. We have to tie all the cushions in garbage bags for two weeks.” He reached for Mac’s shoulder and Mac ducked away.

“Dad, I’m sorry. Please don’t.” He dodged his father’s lunge again. 

“Angus!” the growl scared the blonde into submission. He froze in place and skulked back to the stool. He sat with his head bowed and ran his fingers through it again to pull it out of his eyes and up off his forehead. He hadn’t had a trim that left his hair anything other than long on top and shaggy since...since his mom left him. 

He felt the tickle of the electric shaver on the nape of his neck and it gave him a cold chill. Goosebumps peppered his arms and neck as his father held his head down to access the fine downy curls underneath. Mac felt the razor free the hair from the back of his skull and float past his ear to the makeshift tarp below. 

The razor buzzed off the hair until he stopped at Mac's crown and started another line at the bottom. Mac felt the breeze on the skin on the back of his head and he couldn't stop the tears. 

He wasn't quite sure why he was crying, but no amount of pumping himself up could make it stop. The callous touch of his father was a stark contrast to the fleeting memories of his mother. He couldn't remember much about her, but he remembered her comforting touch-she'd gently brush his hair off of his forehead and tuck it behind his ear. The movement was sweet and rhythmic, tracing the same lock of hair from his temple as it curled up like a duck tail behind his ear over and over again until he fell asleep. 

The more he tried to ignore clumps of his hair falling into his lap, the more he thought about his mom. She liked to smell his hair. Until the day he lost her, she would not so subtly sniff the top of his head, savoring the smell of life from the child she created, whether it was sweet and clean or gross and sweaty, she couldn't resist the smell of her baby's hair.

James rounded the chair, facing Mac. He manipulated Mac's chin with his hand to guide him to look straight ahead. It wasn't rough, but it wasn't caring. He buzzed down the center from Mac's forehead to his crown and brushed the shorn hair off to where it landed on Mac's shoulders, taunting him. His father made a frustrated grunt and went back to his earlier position behind the son. 

He palmed Mac's forehead and urged his neck back so he was looking up into the sky. With his arm bent at a wide angle, James continued to shear the rest of Mac's hair from the front to the crown, following the path of the razor with his free hand. Mac closed his eyes as tears fell, obviously not from sunshine as all that was left was a setting line of orange over the horizon. 

"Why are you crying? No one has hurt you." James argued, irritated. 

"I don't know." Mac lied, being suddenly saddened by fading memories of his mother's ruffling his hair fondly. She'd loved his hair long and floppy, and he'd never had a desire to wear it any other way.

"Well suck it up. And stop moving. You are squirming like an unruly toddler."

"I'm not." Mac flinched as the shaver went across his temple, the majority of his hair sitting in tufts on the patio below. Once the blades touched his sideburns, he flinched again and involuntarily moved away from the shaver.

James placed his hand on the side opposite of where he was working in an attempt to keep the child's head still. "Angus! You have to stop moving."

"I'm not doing it on purpose!" Mac snapped back.

In a rush to get finished, James pressed with his hand toward the direction he was working and took off the last of the hair on that side. As he got near Mac's ear, he increased the pressure of his steadying hand as Mac tried to relax and resist less. The resulting movement caused the shaver to gouge the space behind Mac's ear, tearing a gash behind the shell of his ear to where it connected to his scalp. 

Mac shrieked and dropped to the floor, pressing his hand over his injured ear, trying to assess what just happened. He didn't think those electric shavers could even damage skin, but it hit a delicate part at just the right angle and shredded the thin skin. 

His look of betrayal toward his father was met with a glare of annoyance. Mac pulled his hand away from his head and it was covered with more blood than expected. Mac was visibly panicked and tried to crawl away.

“You have to sit still.” James explained in a cold and uncaring voice. Now get back up here so I can finish. 

Mac dragged himself back to the stool and sat; James finished shaving the injured side and handed Mac a tissue to hold over the cut. He unceremoniously finished removing the last of the hair and turned off the clippers. Mac breathed a sigh of relief and waited for the all clear to be excused from the chair. 

“Now take off your clothes and put them in that garbage bag.” James ordered and pointed as he started folding the tarp in on itself, sealing it closed with duct tape after moving the stool to the corner of the patio. 

Mac obliged and slowly slipped out of his sweatpants, one hand still on his ear, when his dad noticed, “That’s not what you wore to school today.” Mac silently shook his head in response. “Well you need to find those clothes and wash them immediately. In hot water.”

“They’re in my hamper.” He muttered quietly.

“Excuse me? Angus, stop mumbling and speak clearly.” 

“They’re in my hamper.” He was clear but still quiet, meek. “And my jacket is on the chair.” 

“Well you have to wash that too. And your bedsheets and pillowcases. This needs to be done before bedtime, so get to it. After you start the washer, go get in the shower. You have five minutes because I have to leave to meet the tow truck to bring the car back home.”

“Yes, sir.”

James cleaned up the patio and tied some of the sofa pillows into garbage bags while Mac silently handled his business. Near the end of his shower, his dad entered the bathroom. He pulled back the curtain and Mac attempted to cover his naked body with his skinny arms. “Dad!” he yelped. 

“I have to make sure we’ve removed all of the nits.” He explained with no emotion and palmed the scruff of Mac’s neck to tilt the top of his head out of the water stream. “It’s just hair, it’ll grow back.” James told him, possibly as an attempt at comfort, but his voice conveyed no compassion. He roughly scratched with his nails as he inspected the prickly blonde scalp and closed the shower curtain again without another word. 

Mac sat down in the bathtub and sulked, letting streaming water mingle with his tears as he felt his hair for the first time since it was shaved. He had been in such a rush to get the laundry gathered that he hadn’t even looked in a mirror yet. He shut off the water. Still sitting in the tub, shivering, Mac grabbed his towel. He wrapped himself tightly, gripping the corners of the towel as he locked his arms around his knees and sat. 

Mac didn’t know how long he sat there, but his feet were dry. If he stood up, he’d see his reflection in the mirror and it would make it real. Official. The reopened wound on the back of his ear had finally clotted, leaving a trail of blood down the side of his neck and to his collarbone. He heard the garage door open, snapping him out of his trance.

He stood and opened the curtain, letting the towel drop into the tub. The image he saw made him dizzy, and he had to turn away immediately. He streaked to his bedroom and grabbed some pajamas to put on as quickly as he could. Mac grabbed his school materials from the dining room and brought them to his room, snagging a toboggan on his way back. He shut the door and put on the hat, hiding under his covers and hoping to fall asleep. He didn’t need dinner, he couldn’t eat. He was afraid if he saw his dad, James would tell him coldly that it’s just hair again and to stop being emotionally attached to something so expendable. That vanity wasn’t a desirable trait. But it wasn’t vanity that had upset Mac, it was being violated and stripped of something very personal. It was his father taking away the one thing he didn’t even realize tethered him to the mother he missed, but remembered less every day. He fell asleep thinking of her and her hands in his hair.

The next morning Mac snuck out to go to school, thankfully able to avoid his father altogether. His beanie hid his shame, and he’d left his hooded jacket in the washer, so a thin jacket protected him from the mildly cool temperature. 

A few minutes into the lecture, his literature teacher asked, “Mister Macgyver, will you please remove your hat indoors?”

Mac looked like a deer in headlights and wondered if there was any way to get out of doing that. She glared at him and raised her eyebrows in anticipation of his obedience. He pressed his hand on the top of his head and slowly slid the stocking cap down his forehead and over his face, crumpling the hat in his lap. Mac blinked quickly and looked down, hoping that no one would notice how his face reddened and eyes became wet. He readjusted himself in the seat, trying to become invisible to his classmates. The teacher noticed his embarrassment and continued with the class. 

The bullying continued throughout the day, as if being the smallest, youngest, and smartest person in the school wasn't enough fodder. Mac vowed to never cut his hair short again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt the creepy crawlies the entire time I was writing this. My head was constantly itching because I was thinking about head lice. Ugh. I'm so sorry if this gave you the creepy crawlies or if you feel yourself itching right now. That was not my intention. I promise the next two parts will not involve bugs of any kind. *shudder*


	2. Snip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teen mac

After Mac's dad left, shortly after the head shaving incident, Harry didn't bother with making a fuss over Mac's hair. Harry himself had a mess of unkempt hair that he kept hidden under a his ever present "grandpa hat." Every couple of months, Mac would accompany Harry to whatever chain hair cuttery Harry had a coupon for and they'd both have their ends cleaned up.

Mac had his ends trimmed a little, but never up to or over his ears. By the time he started high school his hair was down to his chin. When Mac graduated, it was past his shoulders. He most often wore it tied back at his neck.

At M.I.T. he experienced a rebirth. He was among his people, finally. They didnt make fun of him for being younger or smarter, they praised him. His quirkiness was not so quirky anymore. He could be himself and people were not put off by his detailed rambling, but engaged and added to it. 

Mac smiled a lot more, had a larger social circle, and all of the girls swooned for him in their own awkward ways. He liked to go on long runs with Kelly, played board games with the two Amys in the lobby of the one girls' dorm on campis, and did the innocuous college shenanigans with Frankie as his upperclassman guide. 

Frankie teased Mac about his hair, but like a sibling would. She insisted that he wear it in a bun or braid in the lab, as a ponytail wasn't enough for her safety standards. 

"It's that or a hairnet!" She'd tease before twisting her own into a knot on the top of her head. He'd sigh and roll his eyes and do the same. One particularly silly night sitting around watching TV, she asked if she could braid his hair into pigtails. Mac protested vehemently, but for the first time in over a decade, he relaxed to the feeling of someone else's fingers on his scalp. 

The goosebumps prickled up on his arms and his breath hitched. "Are you ok?" she asked, not expecting that type of reaction to being touched. 

"No, it's ok. It's good. I just...I...my mom..." he sighed, "I like it." He ran his hand down his arm to smooth away the bumps. "I just don't think anyone has touched my hair except to cut it...I guess I didn't expect it to feel so nice. Comforting." He closed his eyes with a dopey grin and she ran her fingers through his hair from his forehead to his neck repeatedly to loosen it up and get a feel for the way it lay and the varying lengths. She made the perfect part straight down the middle, as symmetrical as you'd expect from an engineer. When she finished, he'd wished she could keep going forever. They laughed at his two french braided pigtails.

"Wait!" she'd had an epiphany she didn't expound on before running out of the room. She returned with a spray bottle and wet his hair. "If you sleep with your hair like this, when you wake up and take it down, you'll have some beachy surfer waves, make you look more California." She squatted in front of him and flashed a lopsided smile. "Now you have to sleep on my couch so I can see what it looks like in the morning." 

Without question, he accepted his orders and climbed onto the couch. She gave a verbal warning before launching a pillow at his head from another room. He caught and fluffed it with his hands. Mac ratcheted himself into a cocoon with the old blanket draped over the back of the couch and had no difficulty drifting to sleep after an unexpected and relaxing scalp massage. 

The enjoyable hair play continued until Mac left M.I.T. Her boyfriend found Mac's constant presence nonthreatening and referred to him as the golden retriever puppy she'd adopted or an annoying little brother depending on his mood. Frankie's young teenage charge that always looked at her with doe eyes walked away without a word and didn't look back. 

  
  


Mac showed up to Basic Training immediately after enlisting, his Fort assignment based on his skill set and desired specialty. He'd just lost his grandfather, the only blood still tethering him to his old life-the orphan pining over an older _smarter_ woman who was already spoken for. How could he save the world stuck in a lab spinning his wheels? 

He hadn't given much-or any-thought to the commitment he'd made to the Army, but he had to go through with it. Mac was ready to make a difference, make a change. He hadn't rationalized that the change started with a drastic physical change at the barber. 

Mac waited in a long queue, of men...boys mostly, dressed in the exact same Army issued t-shirt and BDUs, silent, as ordered by their CO. The majority of them had chosen this path after a lifetime of wanting it, the sea of high and tight haircuts in line waiting for the close shave told him that. There were a couple with shaggy hair, but nothing longer than an inch. He'd wondered how the electric clippers attached to a vacuum hose would work for him with his hair being significantly longer than everyone else's. 

His anxiety ramped up the closer he got to the buzzing at the barber chair. Subconsciously he fiddled with his hair, tucked it behind his ear repeatedly. He pulled his fingers through it from the front and let it fall into his face. Then he tucked it behind his ear again. 

Once he realized that he couldn't stop touching his hair, he tied it into a low ponytail. It was longer than it had ever been, longer than he'd ever expected he'd let it be. It brought him comfort and warmth. He started to second guess his decision to leave behind the sources of comfort he'd grown so accustomed to. 

He was next and felt a phantom ache behind his ear where he'd been buzzed by clippers before. Mac wasn't afraid of losing his hair this time, not afraid of the change, or at least that's what he kept telling himself. 

His palms sweated, he blinked more than necessary, then he took a seat in the barber chair. The plastic drape was unceremoniously snapped tightly around his neck. The barber made a comment under his breath that Mac didn't actually hear before grabbing Mac's hair just below the elastic ring and pulling it taut. Mac heard the rustle of metal tools to his right as the barber grabbed the scissors. 

The tension on his head from the barber pulling his ponytail lightened with each snip. Snik. Snik. Snik. The metal crisscrossing repeatedly made a sound he'd read in comic books but never actually noticed. The nice ladies that trimmed his hair over the years were usually rather chatty to distract the nervous kid. But this room was silent except for the hum of the vacuums. He swore the wad of elastic banded hair actually made a noise when it hit the ground. 

Mac's head felt lighter than he could remember ever feeling. The barber then grabbed the electric shaver and sheared the rest of the blonde locks. His hair was too long for the clippers with the vacuum hose, so he got the regular ones-- just like the ones his dad had used. His audience was in awe, it wasn't every day you got to see 18 inches of hair be liberated so harshly. Macs hair tickled his neck and ears for the last time as it fell to the floor below, a blonde pile in stark contrast to the black foam mat 

After being buzzed, the men were made to wait in a line across the room for the rest of the group to finish. His hair was the only hair that made it to the floor, and it remained there; blonde ponytail trampled by excited young men ready to start the new phase of their lives. 

Mac's head felt cold despite the stuffy room. Some of the boys repeatedly rubbed their freshly shorn heads, liking the newly obtained freedom from vanity decisions and clothing choices that came with this mandatory uniformity. Some were finally feeling the gravity of the first physical step toward the military career. Mac felt numb and cold. He didn't touch his hair, that would make it real. 

For a moment he felt like the scared 9 year old, de-louced coldly by his father. But this was his choice. This was Mac's call, a decision he made 100% by himself with no outside influence or pressure. He brushed his palm back and forth across the top of his head. His heart sank for a second at the feel of it, but he then beamed with pride and hope for his new beginning.

  
  
  


...and then he hoped they'd give them bandanas or hats or something to cover their bald heads because he was going to get sunburned pretty badly if they didn't. 


	3. Boom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adult mac, circa 2015

Present Day  
_Actually 2015, but that is the present in this story_

Mac was very excited about his gift for Jack's fortieth birthday. It was a pretty big birthday, one Mac had never been privy to for anyone else he knew. For a 25 year old, 40 seems a lifetime away. Forty. Jack was a happy-go-lucky guy and intense when he had to be, but his apprehension about the big four-zero made Mac sad.

Jack's signs of midlife crisis were raining down constantly on Mac, and he needed to pull his best friend back to his normal self. Jack hadn't slept well, lost a few pounds, and spent too much time preening and looking at the gray speckles in his hair. He sang a lot of Willie Nelson, but only the really depressing songs lately. 

One night, Jack had reflected on the number of people he'd killed; he actually tried to write them down. He didn't know most of their names, but he remembered numbers and situations and what they were wearing. Jack felt remorse and then crippling guilt for all the lives he'd ended, even though it was his job. He'd saved lives by taking them in every one of those instances. He questioned his life and career choices, wondered if he made the right call or if he'd be happier if he'd stayed in Texas, found a wife, and raised 2.5 kids on a horse ranch. 

"Jack," Mac interrupted Jack's spiraling rant sternly, "if you hadn't made every single choice that you made leading up to the second we met, my life would be completely different. I probably would have died in the sandbox if not for you. And not to sound too self important, but I'm really glad that you met me and kept me alive for all these years." 

Jack cracked a slight smile, "I guess I'm glad too. I don't know what I would'a done without ya, Mac. And you've saved me a few times yourself. Thanks, brother." Jack opened his arms and tackled Mac in a hug.

Mac hoped his very unique gift idea would pull Jack back down to earth and nip that midlife crisis in the bud before he went out and cashed in his retirement (if he even had one) and sold his GTO for a Ferrari or something. 

After ordering a few items and chemicals that would get Mac on a terrorist watchlist, he decided to start "borrowing" supplies from work. He'd smuggle them home from the lab at work in his bag or jacket pockets. Bozer knew what Mac was working on at home, but didn't need to know the extent of what Mac could procure from the "think tank."

After a couple of concussive incidents in the garage over the years that damaged cars and lawn equipment, Mac moved his home chemistry lab into the crawlspace under the house. He lined the ceiling with thin sheet metal to protect the floors above from mishaps somewhat. 

It wasn't that Mac was careless in the lab, he was the opposite. He took very detailed notes and checked his math and chemical equations several times each, but outside factors always caused the problems. Earthquakes, nosy roommates, driving too far into the garage, there were so many "other" variables that made things go boom.

Bozer sat down with a bowl of popcorn to start his DVR'd episode of Cutthroat Kitchen. He reveled in the madness and creativity, and the improvisation reminded him of Mac, except for the whole cooking part. Mac absolutely sucked at cooking. Sure he could boil water, that's chemistry, but adding dry pasta to that water and removing it at the appropriate time to cook it al dente and delicious was somehow lost on Mac. He always got distracted and ended up elbow deep in something else until his pasta became bloated and slimy. 

Alas, Bozer's bestie was a genius engineer, and just a casual fan of the show. Bozer would be lying if he said he hadn't trolled a few local garage sales looking for a tiny toy kitchenette a family no longer needed for their children. He daydreamed frequently about a Mac-made custom functional Pequeño Kitchen Sabotage for him to play with. He debated holding off just a couple more hours for Jack to show up and watch with him, but couldn't resist the temptation. 

Mac tested the tensile strength, stretched the polymer as far and as thin as it would go before breaking, and checked how long it took to dissolve after deployment. He was fairly certain he was ready to make a larger batch for the final tests. The fat ginger cat that most definitely did not belong to Mac and Bozer was slinking around the crawlspace. 

The cat, Schrodinger, was simultaneously not his cat and also definitely his cat because it came around nearly every day for noms and snuggles. Schrodinger managed to climb his tubby ass up to the deck looking for his 3rd or possibly even 4th family that claimed but also didn't claim him. Mac would sit out on the deck with the cat and scratch behind his ears until the cat plopped down onto his side to reveal his fluffy white belly. Mac spent several sleepless post-mission nights mindlessly petting the cat on the back deck by the extinguished fire pit, relishing the soothing purr and soft pelt.

Not his cat managed to squeeze into the crawlspace somehow, but Mac wasn't aware of an opening large enough for a rodent, much less a plump kitty. 

"Hey buddy, you can't be down here." Mac cooed as he reached for the cat. Schrodinger head butted Mac's shin and circled his ankles twice before allowing Mac to pick him up. After dumping the cat on the front porch, Mac went back inside to wash up. He readjusted and secured the bandana holding his long floppy hair back, washed his hands, and disappeared back underground. 

He measured, calibrated, and checked everything again, ready to make the final test batch. A paw tapped Mac's thigh three times to get his attention, and Mac stopped his work again. "Ugh," he let out a frustrated groan. "Ok, I'm sorry, I'll feed you this time. I learned my lesson." He toted the cat to the front porch again and pocketed a can of fancy wet cat food. "This should keep you busy for a while." Mac cracked the pull tab on the can and released the stinky bits in gravy into a small dish for his orange friend. He left his sweaty bandana in the cat bed on the porch in case Schrodinger was longing for Mac's company. 

Mac washed up, measured and double checked, and mixed the ingredients for a very special Jack Dalton birthday gift. For the 3rd time, Schrodinger snuck into the crawlspace unnoticed, but this time he jumped up onto the table where Mac was working. 

Mac snatched the cat up before his tail caught fire, but not before he managed to knock one of the beakers down. Mac watched in slow motion as gravity took hold, hurtling the moderately sized glass container toward the ground. He ducked and wrapped himself around the cat just before impact, shielding it from any explosion.

The explosion was small, but loud. The cacophony came from the rest of the equipment crashing to the ground. Mac's ears rang; the spooked cat struggled to get away and dug his front and back claws into the arm Mac had wrapped around him. 

Mac released the cat and watched him scurry away to the hole where he had apparently entered the crawl space. The majority of the spill landed right on Mac. It hadn't had a chance to get too hot, so he wasn't burned, just a minor scald, and for that, he was thankful. 

Unfortunately, Mac was drenched in a sticky white polymer from his shoulder to the crown of his head. Bozer popped his head into the hatch for the crawlspace and hollered, "Mac, are you ok?" 

Mac only heard a muffled voice and looked toward Bozer and gave him a thumbs up. Once it looked like Bozer was going to drop down into the crawlspace to assist, Mac shook his head to call off his roommate and walked toward the hatch to climb out. 

Mac disappeared into the bathroom to inspect the damage. From the front, all was clear; his face was a little flush from the rush of the accident. He turned to the side to see the damage. He inspected the spot where his shirt collar met his neck, pulling the fabric to see how stuck he really was.

He tugged the shirt upward and the white polymer pulled at the skin on his neck. Mac tried to get his finger under the slowly hardening goo, but it was adhered firmly to his skin. He yanked a little harder, like removing a waxing strip, but it only succeeded in doing just that. The spot on his neck where he freed the polymer took the delicate hairs with it and left an angry red blotch on his skin. 

Mac knew it was wasted effort to try to remove any more, so he left the bathroom, defeated. Doing calculations in his head to try to solve this dilemma, he walked out to find his roommate and ran right smack into Jack.

“Jack,” Mac was surprised to see him, “I didn’t think you’d be here for another hour or so.”

“I finished up early.” Jack’s voice rose in a defensive tone. "Didn’t think you’d mind if I showed up a little early.”

"No, no. It's cool...just wanted to tidy up before you got here." Mac fumbled his words and tried to stay turned in a way where Jack couldn’t see his predicament. 

Jack walked toward the sofa, pulling a beer out of the six pack and opening it with his belt buckle. “Since when does it matter if your place is messy? Dude, I’ve helped you vacuum flour out of the curtains…” Jack had an epiphany, “oh no, have you been cooking again?”

“No, Jack. Everything’s fine. Just a surprise that you're here early.” 

“Hmmmmmm.” Jack was pensive and suspicious. “Bozer!” he yelled.

Bozer rounded the corner, playing it cool “hey Jack!”

“Hey, Boze. So what happened here?” Jack knew the right person to ask to get the whole story.

“Well…” Bozer began, then looked at Mac for guidance; Mac glared back. “MacBlewUpHisLabAgain.” 

Jack looked alarmed, “he what?” He turned to Mac and Bozer scrambled out of the room, “are you hurt?” He looked at Mac’s guilty face and quickly scanned him from head to toe. Then he lightly gripped Mac’s shoulders and spun him around slowly. “Mac,” his tone was that of someone talking to a golden retriever that found its way into a briar patch, “what did you get into?”

Mac sulked as he turned around to face Jack, “it was the cat.”

“That fat orange stray?” Jack asked. “I don’t think he’s capable of doing chemistry. What happened?”

“He got into the crawl space and knocked some stuff over. Something exploded. Glass broke. Things spilled.” 

“I see that. Are you hurt?” Jack went to touch the mass of white something stuck to Mac’s shirt, neck, and hair.

Mac flinched away so Jack couldn’t touch it, “no. I’m just...stuck.” He sighed, “and it’s still a little sticky, and I don’t want you to be stuck to me too.”

“Oh man.” Jack was impressed. “What is it?” 

“It’s nothing.”

“Is it gonna come off?”

“Eventually.”

“Like when eventually? Like in an hour eventually so we can watch the game while we play Scattergories? Or like next month eventually, and you’ll just wear a hoodie for a few weeks so no one sees your new appendage.”

“I was working on those calculations when I ran into you.” Mac went back to figuring out the numbers in his head, mumbling his way through it, “aerosolized form dries and turns to dust in approximately one hour, but this concentration should…” he counted numbers no one else could see, “dry up and disintegrate in about…” he deflated, “six weeks.”

Jack's eyes widened, "oh man. What are you gonna do?" Mac shrugged. "Can I touch it?"

"No!" Mac shrugged away from Jack's slowly encroaching finger. "It's still sticky."

Jack resigned and pleaded with sympathetic eyes, "Lemme take a look at it. I won't touch it." 

Mac sighed and turned around. Jack inspected with his eyes first, then put his fingers into the collar of the shirt to see if the stuff went through Mac's clothes too. He saw the spot where Mac had already pulled it off of his skin where it was red and irritated. He lifted the shirt collar so it pulled where the polymer was still stuck to Mac's skin. Mac swatted at him. 

"Sorry, sorry." Jack put both hands in the air and apologized. "Dude, this goes all the way to the top of your head. How are you gonna wash your hair, or turn your head, or take off this shirt?"

Mac confessed, "Honestly, I haven't thought that far ahead yet. It just happened like ten minutes ago.” 

Jack went back behind Mac to gawk some more and brainstorm solutions. He pulled the shirt collar again to look more closely at the spot where it was previously stuck to Mac's neck. "Damn, son. That took the hair off and everything." 

“I know, and it’s starting to pull at my scalp. I’ve studied the tensile strength of the aerosolized version, but not this concentration, but I can tell you, at its thinnest, one strand can support 76 kilograms or 380 kilograms out of the dispenser I made. So basically, this...giant wad is very strong and very stuck and taking my hair and some of the skin with it." 

"Wow. I'm sorry. What are you doing this for? Some kind of super strong silly string? For like catch...ing… bad ...guys." Jack's words stretched as he had a realization, "YOU'RE MAKING A SPIDER-MAN WEB SLINGER!" 

"No!" Mac was defensive. Lying. 

"Yes you are!" Jack was bouncing around with excitement. "You're making a friggin web slinger so you can swing from buildings and tie up supervillains like Spider-Man...Spider-Mac!"

"No. I'm not making a web slinger for myself." Mac admitted, "I was making it for you."

Jack stopped in his track, "you what?"

"I was making it for you." Mac confessed. "I wanted to give you something really special for your 40th birthday. Something really unique that only I could get for you. It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Are you kidding? It's the best idea ever! It's the coolest birthday gift I could ever imagine. Mac," he took a breath and blinked back tears that threatened to fall, "that is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for my birthday."

"Well, it was the least I could do after what you did for my twenty-first." Mac flashed a bashful smile, "it was the first time in a long time that I actually...felt...special. And I could never repay you for that, but I could at least try."

"Aw, hoss, you didn't have to do that for me. I'm just glad to have you in my life." Jack pulled Mac in for a hug and wrapped his arms around his back. 

"And now you're stuck with me." Mac groaned.

"Literally." Jack tugged at the sleeve of his jacket that was now stuck to the back of Mac's t-shirt. 

"Jack," Mac whined, "why did you do that?"

Jack flashed a lopsided guilty grin, "I was in the moment. Couldn't help myself." He unfurled himself from the embrace and used his stuck arm to guide Mac to a chair. Jack slid out of his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair Mac sat in so it wouldn’t pull too much on his shirt.

Politely, Jack commanded to Mac, “aight, hold tight, buddy. I’m gonna take a closer look at what’s going on here, but first, I gotta get some tools.”

After a few minutes, Jack returned with a random assortment of things that garnered a very cross look from Mac. Jack winked and told him, “you’re not the only one who can improvise.”

Jack donned some black nitrile gloves, and stood over the top of Mac’s scalp to see the damage. He stuck a bamboo skewer into a space under the mass and tried to lift it. He poked around several spots to see how closely stuck to his skin it was under all the hair. 

The goosebumps on Mac’s arms didn’t go unnoticed. “I see your Spidey sense is tingling. Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna hurt ya.” Jack soothed in a soft drawl before putting on his glasses to get a closer look.

Jack moved hair around, dug around his scalp, and was very gentle. Mac closed his eyes; his breath hitched at the familiarity of the situation-paternal figure inspecting his scalp, but this felt different. Jack was careful, helpful. Mac opened his eyes and smoothed the goosebumps down on his arms.

“You doin’ alright there, hoss? I’m not hurtin’ you, am I?” 

“No, you’re good. Just, some bad memories.” Mac stammered and Jack gave a knowing nod despite not really knowing what he was referring to. 

Jack checked the hair at the nape of Mac’s neck, circled the chair, then squatted to face his partner. “Looks like we might have to cut all that hair loose. Sorry, man. I wish there was another way.”

Mac pressed his lips together pensively and nodded in agreement. 

“And this little spot stuck to your neck, we may just have to yank that off like a band-aid when we get there.” Jack explained and Mac nodded. “I can try to get in there with some scissors, but there are some spots that are so close that we may have to shave.” Jack could see that Mac was devastated. “I can tell that you’re not as acquainted with the electric shaver as ol’ Jack is,” he brushed his palm across the very short bristles on the side of his own head, “but I’ll do my best to keep you as sexy as I am.” 

Mac blushed, “it’s ok, Jack, you can shave it. It’s probably a better idea than you coming at me with a pair of scissors.”

Jack snickered and shook his head as he disappeared into Bozer’s room to borrow his electric clippers. He returned with a basket of things and a towel. After draping the towel across Mac’s shoulders, Jack secured it with a chip bag clip around the front. “I really hate to do this to ya, kid. Your hair is a pretty significant part of your trademark look, has been since I met ya.”

“It’s ok, Jack. Not your fault. There’s nothing you could have done to prevent this.” Mac tried to reassure him. 

When Jack turned on the electric clippers, Mac flinched. “How long was your hair before you got shaved for Basic?” Jack incorrectly assumed that mandatory shearing must have been pretty traumatic for his best friend, but Mac didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth.

Mac shrugged, “I guess down below my shoulders.” 

Bozer had apparently been listening in and hollered from the other room, “it was longer than it was in his senior pictures. I’m looking for the yearbook now.”

Mac blushed and muttered, “oh god, please no.” He buried his face in his palm. “Can we just get this over with? It’s starting to pull.”

“Allright, allright.” Jack humored him and took his place in front of the blonde. He brought the clippers up to Mac’s forehead at his hairline and apologized with an exhale, “I’m sorry, buddy.”

Jack slowly worked under the mass of web goo, millimeters at a time, liberating it from Mac’s scalp. Gently and precise, Jack tried to keep as much length as he could without tugging too hard on his hair. He lightly guided Mac’s head down with his hands to get to the stuck hair on the back. When Jack could no longer reach the hair in the back without contorting Mac’s neck, he circled around. 

“Ok, I have to come in at an angle on this stuff in the back, but I’m almost finished. Just a little bit more and then the painful part that’s stuck right on your skin.” Jack explained and Mac acknowledged with a silent single nod. Jack’s tender touch to guide Mac’s head back upright was a unexpectedly comforting move. His hand lingered a moment longer on the side of Mac’s neck, below his ear, before he brushed Mac’s bangs off his forehead and out of his eyes for him.

Finally, all of the web concentrate was freed from Mac’s long and floppy hair, leaving a strip of very short bristles from the crown of his head down to his neck. All that remained was what was stuck to his skin. “So how you wanna do this last bit? Yank it off like a band-aid, or try to ease it off without taking too much skin with it?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Mac answered and pondered for a moment. “When it’s not concentrated like this, it loses its tackiness just before it dries up and disintegrates.” He thought out loud.

“Well not to be critical, but how is this stuff supposed to not rip the skin off the bad guys we tie up in it?” Jack asked, genuinely curious.

“Well when it’s sprayed, it is a really thin strand, like hair, between 40 and 60 microns, if the webs didn't come out simultaneously in a small bundle, you probably wouldn't see them at all. There's not a lot of surface area to touch, so it just sticks to your skin...like a piece of Scotch tape would, and doesn’t break easily so you’re still incapicitated. After an hour it becomes dry and brittle and turns into dust, but this is so thick that it won’t dry out for a long time." Jack's silence in lieu of rebuttal was Mac's clue that Jack was just trying to distract him. He was about to tense up anticipation of the pain, but Jack yanked the last piece of polymer off Mac's skin before he had the chance to prepare for it.

Mac yelped in pain. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry" Jack repeated quietly over and over again as he wrapped his arms around Mac's shoulders from behind and gave him a squeeze. Before Mac even realized it was over, Jack was rubbing a salve over the raw spot and fanned it with a stray magazine. "I'm so sorry about that, hoss. I just know that if I told you, it would hurt more because you knew it was coming. And if you hate me forever for betraying you, I understand." He continued to fan and cool the raw flesh as he spoke, "and I'm gonna cover this up in a minute once it stops burning so badly. That ok?"

"Yeah," Mac breathed through the sting, "thanks Jack." 

Once Mac was noticeably more relaxed, Jack covered the reddened area with a piece of gauze and taped it down. He ran his hand down the back of Mac's head, his fingertips flitted over the fuzzy new stripe. "All done," Jack offered Mac a hand up out of the chair, "you wanna see the damage? And clean up that cat scratch? And get a new shirt?" Jack asked with a hand lightly guiding Mac toward his bathroom to check it out. 

Jack slipped out to retrieve his basket of goodies from the living room and joined Mac at the bathroom mirror where he was admiring the mass of web gunk and hair that was still attached to the shirt he'd just taken off. Jack startled him, "gonna keep it as a trophy?" 

"Aah, no." Mac tossed the stuck together shirt and jacket into the bathtub. He felt the back of his head where the hair was now short across a two inch wide track from his crown to his neck. 

Jack tried to be optimistic with his suggestions, "you could just comb it over." He chuckled as he fluffed Mac's hair and tried to cover up the short patch. "Reverse mohawk? I could shave the other side too? Oh! Reverse mullet." 

"I don't think that's actually a thing, Jack." Mac laughed along with him while Jack pulled out a handheld mirror to show him the back of his hair. "You think you could shave the rest of it off for me?"

"Me? Really?"

"Yeah, I trust you."

"Well I've sheared a few sheep and an alpaca, and you can't be any worse than that, so you've got yourself a deal."

Jack grabbed a fresh towel from under the sink and wrapped it around Mac's shoulders, securing it with the discarded chip clip from earlier. He guided Mac to sit on the closed toilet, and stood behind him, both facing the mirror. Mac hadn't yet had the luxury of watching his hair disappear from his head, and he was anxious. 

After placing the shaver on top of the toilet tank, Jack put his steadying hands on Mac's shoulders and looked into his eyes from the mirror. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yeah, let's get it over with." Mac gave him a half smile and put his fingers through his hair one last time as Jack put a 7/8" guard on the shaver to keep some of the length on top. He checked to make sure the gauze pad was still stuck in place on Mac's neck and readied his own nervous hands with the razor. 

"You may even be able to get away with a high and tight instead of a buzz cut. At least that's what I'm gonna try first." Jack took a deep breath and held Mac's bangs back with one hand and buzzed the razor through it starting at his temple and going back. Mac watched the hair fall away, but instead of feeling loss, it was oddly satisfying to actually get to see it go from long to short. "Hey man, don't watch, it's gonna look pretty bad until I'm finished."

"It's ok. I want to see." Mac told him confidently. Jack concentrated on the hair as Mac watched, fascinated. Jack's hands were caring and his movements delicate. It was nothing like his previous two experiences. He worked so slowly and deliberately, like he was sculpting a Renaissance masterpiece.

Jack went to a shorter guard for the sides and back, he shaved the last of the long strands and lightly brushed them off of his partner before he removed the guard to clean up the sideburns and around his ears. He gently folded Mac's ear down to get behind it. "That's quite a scar you got there, hoss. You piss off the principal and get dragged to the office by the ear?"

"No, I was a kid, I don't really remember it." He lied, but there was a little truth behind it because he'd mostly blocked the bad memories of his father and tried to only remember the positive things. 

Jack brushed the last of the stray hairs from Mac's face and shoulders. "Ya know, it doesn't look bad. You look respectable instead of like a dirty hippie." He pulled his fingers through the inch of hair Mac had left on top to make it stand up.

Mac smiled at his reflection, "I look like you, Jack." He flattened his hair back down with both hands and initiated a fist bump. Once Jack tagged him back, Mac exited toward the living room, "I think I'll be wearing a hat for a while."

Jack hurried after him, "What? No way!" 

"I thought you liked hats, Jack."

"I do, but why would you cover up such wonderful hard work. Would you cover up the Mona Lisa?" Jack asked as Mac slipped on a t-shirt he'd grabbed on the way out of the bedroom.

"If she had short hair like this, probably." Mac grinned as he put on a Dallas Cowboys cap that Jack had left there at some point. He didn't think it looked bad, it just didn't look like himself, and this was definitelythe best of the 3 times he'd had an electric shaver taken to his hair.. "You said it yourself, the long hair is my trademark look, I don't want to have to compete with you because we both know you'd win." 

Jack stuck his chest out with pride at the flattery and preened a little to make sure his faux hawk was standing tall. 

"I don't know about you," Mac was bouncy and excited, "but I could use some wings and a few beers after that."

Jack turned the bill of Mac's hat around to the back and responded, "you read my mind, kid. Must be the hair."

"Thanks again, big guy." Mac put his arm across Jack's back and gave a squeeze as they walked toward the door to leave.

"So tell me more about these web slingers." Jack prodded as he closed the front door behind them. 

Bozer emerged from his room with the yearbook in hand, noting his missing friends and the sound of the GTO revving to life. He shrugged and left the yearbook on the kitchen counter open to the page with a very long haired Mac's smirking senior picture. Next to the picture, Penny had written in red marker #neverforget #monalisamacgyver with two little hearts next to it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mac's 21st birthday thing was a reference to the story EOD + ETOH written by my friend Tango Charlie.
> 
> And everything cute and/or funny in this chapter came from @impossiblepluto's brain. The cat, the webs, it's all her. Plus the kickass title pic she made is amazing. This is all because of Pluto. Thank you, friend.


End file.
